


Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory...

by brevinoda



Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Having Faith, Not Runecraft, Sorta Comfort?, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:17:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevinoda/pseuds/brevinoda
Summary: One person loses faith, another gains it. Sort of spoilers for Volume 13.





	Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory...

Somewhere in Roble, there was a weathered old soldier. She was once a valiant paladin, but time and defeat snuffed out all her convictions. War killed her family, war killed her spirit. War killed her God – but the old soldier remained. The world had long forgotten her by now, and so she spent her days wandering the earth.

Today the soldier was in a special town. Not that the town itself was important, but merely a specific building. There was a little church that had become quite popular recently, and a person she once knew was likely to be there. Beyond idle curiosity, there was no purpose to the soldier’s meeting; but it was something different from the blur of identical days and places, and so the soldier found her way there.

The stone façade appeared unchanged, but somehow it seemed brighter within. Though it was noon, hints could be seen through the stained glass of kneeling forms and others at prayer. The door was open as usual, and the soldier silently crossed its threshold.

So much light was within. As if the place were torchlit, as if there wasn’t a roof; and yet the only things burning were little candles and incense in wandering censers. And the air lacked the tension of the old days, the firmness (the desperation) silently brewing in people’s hearts as they prayed for salvation. Maybe they felt they _were_ saved now?

The old soldier felt the crowd’s attention shift, and she snapped out of her reverie. A person approaching from the altar:

A young woman, short even amongst commoners. Her habit was a plain thing of dark black, the only jewelry upon her a visor. If not for that mask and that wide smile, there would be little to say this girl wasn’t a beggar new to a street – but when she moved every voice went quiet and every person made way.

This was Neia Baraja, the raindrop in a pond, the polestar in the sky. The invisible squire the soldier knew was merely her cocoon, it seemed.

And yet she hadn’t gotten any taller. Neia still had to look up to the soldier, but where she once was hunched and nervous, Neia now stood confidently. Not quite proudly, but utterly without the ratlike cowardice that once seemed innate to her very being.

Neia was about to speak; thus it was a good time to interrupt.

“You recognize me?”

“No,” the girl said, her smile utterly unaffected, “but that’s what’s interesting. You look like a traveler; it’s always good to see new faces, especially people who’ve had some adventures. Please – if you like I’d be happy to show you around.”

“I may not have many stories,” the soldier said evenly. “But it would be a pleasure.”

And the girl showed the soldier her first impossible sight for the day: Neia Baraja grinning. She beckoned and the soldier followed, quite bewildered.

“I’m Neia, by the way.”

“You’re the deacon, then?”

“In a way? But we don’t use titles…”

And so Neia led the soldier about –

There was light. There was the murmur of life, those whispered prayers and careful footsteps. There was the myrrh wafting so devotedly through the air.

In short, this was still a church. But, of course, a church for the new god named Ainz. The world had been quite clear: God was not fit for the job.

Neia led the soldier to the altar, up its steps, and where the church once had its triptych there was just – _nothing_. No gold. No murals. Just the altar stone itself, cool and pale, and a shabby skull resting atop it on a purple cushion.

Even that skull would have been a tolerable relic, the soldier thought, if it at least had its jaw. If it wasn’t missing several teeth. But she didn’t speak of that. Instead, she knelt before it and asked:

“A saint?”

“In a way,” Neia said more quietly. “This is the skull of a bowman that died here during the demon siege. We don’t know who they are, if they’re a man or a woman, but they died protecting this place. If we could, we’d have put all of the unburied skulls right here – but then there would be no place for the living to pray, so this one soldier represents them all.”

The soldier gazed into the remains, and faintly she could remember the damned lich, the glow of his eyes as he judged her for not doing the right thing well enough. No – for not doing the wrong thing and calling it right. Some things could not be surrendered.

She heard Neia speak up again:

“...You know, at first it was a scary symbol to me, too. It's a skull, what about the undead  _isn't_  frightening, right? At first, I'd even get nightmares looking at our Lord.”

The soldier didn't answer; she was too busy staring into the relic's empty sockets, recalling the face of her enemy. But for her squire's sake, she shut her eyes, focused on listening.

“But when you give it some thought, it's pretty inspiring. Because –” and here Neia took up the plain skull, smiled gently at it as she raised it to the light – “All of us have a skull like this in our own heads. Lord Ainz is with every one of us, no matter who we are or what we think of him! And after thinking that... these bones weren't so scary, you know?”

The soldier blinked, the world suddenly full and terrible with color she'd forgotten. She gazed upon what was unquestionably a saint. _Saint_ Neia? Yet there was the proof.

The beatific smile on Neia's lips vanished, and she put the skull back upon its cushion. “U-uh, I didn't mean to get so into it! Sorry about that...”

“No, not at all, Paladin.”

“'Paladin'?”

The old soldier made what she remembered of a smile. “I couldn't bear just calling someone important by their first name like that. But… you protect your flock and lead them by upholding the virtues of God. A different God from the Kingdom's, but it's exactly what a paladin is in the end, yes?”

“I never thought about it that way...” The visor hid her eyes, but the soldier could feel Neia looking at her with awe. A saint looked at someone like her with awe; she felt a hint of the old frustration. “Well, thank you, miss –?”

“It's not important,” the soldier said automatically.

“To me it is!” the saint said just as automatically, and the soldier couldn't hold back a chuckle.

Indeed, she couldn't hold back laughing to her heart's content, though she could keep quiet at least. It brought no warmth to the soldier, but the world wasn't quite so cold now.

The old soldier found her breath. “You might not like the answer. Is it still alright?”

“Of course,” Saint Neia said, and she cupped her ear to hear now –

“The truth is,” the old soldier whispered – “I’ve forgotten my name, good Paladin.”

And Neia  _laughed_. Too loud and snorted, echoing awkwardly down the vaulted halls; Ainz must've blessed her again, because nobody stopped to stare.  _Classic Neia,_  the soldier thought.

“Well... you're always welcome here, Paladin Forgot-my-name.” Neia saw her; there was no way the saint didn't know who she was speaking to, yet she smiled so warmly as if they were friends, offered her hand to lift the soldier back up. “Alright?”

It was the soldier's turn to ask. “'Paladin'?”

“You seem like one too,” Neia said simply.

And the soldier remembered exactly what a bittersweet smile felt like.

“Alright,” Remedios answered, and she took the saint's hand.


End file.
